A Sweet Sort Of Meanness
by Val-Creative
Summary: Sansa and Margaery confess their feelings for each other before Margaery's wedding to Joffrey. /Canon Era. Sansaery. Standalone.


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There's a _meanness_ in Sansa's lovely, clearwater blue eyes. Deep and impenetrable, her waters bitter- _cold_ and swallowing up her naivety.

Margaery quite likes that about her, if need be honest.

On the fall of the eve-tide, she invites Lady Sansa without any attendants to her grand, perfumed sleeping chambers. One of Margaery's own girls pouts and fusses, stroking the length of Margaery's arm and her sleep-softened, chestnut brown curls. She's thin stature and rosy copper skin, hair like spun-gold—practically _lives_ in Margaery's bed, wishing to please her, to be spoiled and admired. Margaery has no patience for her, smacking the hand away unkindly and _ordering_ her out.

Lady Sansa enters a little after the tapers are lit, washing in radiance, in the _glow_ of Sansa's auburn locks.

Margaery gazes over the other girl's dark, woolen night-cloak and shapeless gown. She puts on an encouraging, _practiced_ smile, gesturing Sansa to join her near the long, supper table.

"You must be thrilled about tomorrow," Sansa says, eyes lowered, but her voice lacking any emotion.

Margaery wrinkles her nose, chuckling and smoothing her fingers over her myrish lace bed-gown. She reaches for a jeweled, ornate goblet and the sweet-apple cider, pouring the amber liquid in. "I _know_ sarcasm when I hear it, dearest. Mind your tongue."

Sansa's face turns a rich red colour, her brow scrunching in indignation—even as Margaery offers her the goblet, even as the other girl quickly snatches it from her fingertips.

"… … Or I shall make a proper use of it," Margaery adds primly, _teasingly_.

Beyond this scene, the Red Keep bustles about in a hurry, gathering extravagantly towering flower arrangements and silken things for the royal marriage.

It means little to her right now.

 _Here_ , in this beauty and silence, Sansa's full lips are glistening wet and the _most_ divine wonder Margaery's sights could be bestowed with. She imagines _drinking_ the cider straight from her little, upturned mouth, when Sansa finally rests herself a wood-and-steel chair.

"It can't exactly be a threat if I am willing," Sansa comments, eyeing Margaery with plain admiration.

"Boldness hardly suits you."

Margaery circles her, lying her hands gently upon Sansa's shoulders and feeling the tension lessen from her muscles. She peels off the woolen cloak, tossing it aside and _slowly_ unbuttoning Sansa's gown, beginning at her nape.

"I disagree," Sansa says, breathy and laughing into her goblet, feeling Margaery playfully brush her fingers up her neck.

The gown slips down Sansa's lightly freckled shoulders, exposing her back. There's a _scar_ , perhaps only a finger's length, faint and pale pink. Margaery curiously touches it, feeling a tiny, pleasurable shudder from her companion.

Sansa has been exposed _many_ times to others, to the king and his men, in their _violence_ and greedy stares.

"Have the beatings stopped?" she asks, gathering up Sansa's hair and letting it spill across her left shoulder.

After a long pause, Sansa nods, turning in place to face Margaery.

"Since _you_ …"

It's much too heavy of a subject, and Margaery already knows how thankful Sansa is for her kindness. For protecting her—and Margaery _will_. "The gods are good to us." Margaery's hands frame Sansa's face, lifting her agitated expression. " _That_ means our king desires my ear and my wisdom," she tells her calmly. "He will listen to me."

"You won't be happy marrying that _monster_." The words between Sansa's teeth are fierce, _unforgiving_. A wolf's sharpness. "I know you won't—it's not what you desire."

She's not _wrong_.

"Indeed, I desire so much _more_ than that," Margaery agrees with a girlish, _sugary_ lithe, pulling Sansa out of her chair and clutching their hands together. "I desire _you_." Sansa's blue eyes widen when Margaery lessens the distance, their noses bumping. "Would it be shameful to confess feelings for you, Lady Sansa?"

It's _adorable_ how cross-eyed Sansa goes.

"N-no."

"I intent to marry another man, yet it is _your_ body that I wish to cherish until the day's light fades."

Margaery's _sweet_ and fantastical words only half-register as Sansa tightens her grasp on Margaery, frowning. "We should _leave_ for Highgarden," she insists. "Please."

It sounds like a dream.

Margaery has already imagined it countless times. To avoid a loveless marriage, to avoid an abusive husband and lay down her ambitions for Queen, but… that's hardly within her own character. Margaery _wants_ what she wants, and she will have it. She will have it as soon as Joffrey either succumbs to illness, or dies.

Preferably _soon_.

"Are you so eager to marry my brother Willas—is that it?" Margaery asks, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. Sansa untangles their hands on purpose, embracing her waist and looking so _stern_ that Margaery is mildly terrified to laugh. What a _silly_ , wonderful girl.

"You know I only wish to marry you, if I need _marry_ at all," Sansa says, with that meanness and _cold_ -water in the blue of her eyes, coursing through her veins.

There's an aroma of lemons and mints, when Margaery greedily presses against Sansa's opening, euphoric mouth.

 _Good._

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 _GoT is not mine. I made the summary directly the prompt I took from the **Femslash Revolution 2016 Prompt Exchange**! This was placed by **Captain_Writers_Block_5** and I hope they love it as much as I loved writing it! AND THE FANS OF SANSAERY! WHAT AN A+++++ SHIP! Amy comments/thoughts would be so so so so appreciated thank you!_


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